


Out Here

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Animal Play, Bondage, Collars, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/F, Mirror Universe, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uhura discovers a stowaway and somehow winds up using that to both their advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gateway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grrarg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grrarg/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s a part of her that’s excited, of course, always is; the ISS Enterprise is, after all, the best ship in the Fleet. And she’s stationed on it. _High_ on it. She gets to sit on the bridge, watch over it all, sort through the messages and feel that knowledge, that _power_ : control over all communication. She holds her head high as she walks, pride in her bones. 

But there’s that small prickle of sorrow too, every time she leaves Earth. She’s not alone in that feeling, she knows, that idea that she is _alone_. She has the crew of the Enterprise, yes, but anyone working in the Fleet can never quite be trusted, and her family is all behind. There’s no one on the Enterprise for her the way there is on Earth. There’s something so... empty... about the confines of space—never mind that it’s never ending.

Still, Nyota brushes past security with light, low-lit smiles on her face, a simple nod getting her through all checks. No one dares ask for her ID, dares to stop her. There’s a final security officer right inside the shuttle, but he’s otherwise occupied, and she means to catch his eye: all it will take.

He doesn’t see her. 

Nyota stops walking, frowning. It’s unlikely she’ll be hassled in the air, but it’s a possibility if she isn’t cleared before take off. The rest of the shuttle is mostly empty, though a familiar yeoman and two yellow-shirts are along the back row. Nyota steps in behind the current charge, ready to catch the guard’s eye. 

The woman he’s talking to is new, but then, Nyota can’t be expected to keep track of all the unimportant people. ...Even the particularly attractive ones, like this one, Nyota absently notes. She’s probably an ensign. She stands tall, skin light, hair blonde, eyes oddly different colours. When she opens her mouth, there’s a thick Earth-British accent in her words, and the guard—Hendorff, if Nyota remembers correctly—cuts her off immediately. His eyes are on the open cleavage beneath her only half-zipped ground suit, the grey material hugging all her curves. Nyota realizes belatedly that she’s staring as much as he is, and she clears her throat. Hendorff stops hassling the woman long enough to grumble, “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

Nyota lifts her eyebrow—a subtle warning, and nods. One last lingering look at the ensign—who’s now _staring_ right back at her, pretty eyes wide—and she heads further into the shuttle. It’s not her business. 

She takes a seat next to Janice Rand, who gives her an ever-nervous smile. Nyota returns it, fixing forward. With the guard’s attention returned, more officers start to make it through the shuttle doors. He rails on the blonde woman a few more times—apparently there’s some issue with her transfer file—and when he does let her through, it’s only because he’s clearly having fun looking at her. She doesn’t react to that attention. Her eyes dart nervously over the filling seats, catch Nyota’s, and quickly swerve away. She takes a seat in the second row.

Nyota’s vaguely impressed that she isn’t crying; Janice would. Either this isn’t the ensign’s first flight, or she’s just used to the ways of the Empire in general.

Suddenly in the mood for blondes, Nyota drops her hand to Janice’s bare leg, stroking it lightly with her thumb as she purrs, “Have a good shore leave, yeoman?”

* * *

The next day is when it all really counts. The first shift was boring as hell, all just directions, some obscure mission, checking thrusters and the ship and the sort of still-boring business that precludes banter. Today’s shift is better; things are settled. Nyota scrolls through the stacked messages built up from when she slept; the gamma shift officer’s an idiot.

Most of it’s not stuff to bother Kirk with. The only reason the aggressive beast of a man so much as knows her name is because she’s damn good at her job; she doesn’t waste his time. She knows what he likes, what he cares to answer, what he would prefer her to forge answers on. Not exactly proper protocol, but the Empire’s never placed much value on upstanding citizens. There’s a particularly lewd transmission from an Orion trader wanting to barter a few ‘goods.’ Nyota scans the list, decides Kirk will want some of it, and makes the executive decision to send a counter offer. They probably won’t be in the vicinity to pick it up for another month, but that’s not an issue. With Kirk’s signature, it’ll wait. 

A couple hours in, the bridge doors part for Janice, fluttering in late with a tray in her hands. She offers Kirk a PADD and a cup of coffee, most likely spiked with alcohol. Despite that, Kirk takes a swig and calls to the station not far from Nyota’s, “You want some?”

Spock looks over his shoulder, eyebrow lifted. Ironically, he’s probably the one man in the Empire who’d say no. Maybe that’s why Kirk asks. He does say, “No thank you, Captain,” and returns to his console. 

From the helm, Sulu mock-grumbles, “You never offer me coffee.” That could go either way, though Sulu’s in the inner circle. Anyone else would get a one-way agonizer ticket. 

Sulu gets a laugh from Kirk and a broad, “Anyone else require my yeoman’s services?” Janice stays glued to the spot, waiting. Kirk scans the room. 

When his gaze reaches Nyota, she admits loudly, “I’d like a yeoman.” Kirk smirks, and she clarifies, “My own.” She gives him a strong look that dictates she deserves it. And he knows she does. 

He’s clearly in a good mood today. He gestures at the helm and suggests, “How about Chekov?” The Russian winces but doesn’t dare turn around—poor thing’s too young and timid to be in Kirk’s playground. “He’s starting to look too weak for an officer anyway, even if he does make for good eye-candy.” Chekov’s visibly trying not to tremble. 

For a moment, Nyota does consider it. He might look cute in a collar, but cute isn’t everything. He’s intelligent, yes, but he holds no flare beyond that. She has no use for weak things. She tells Kirk, “Frankly, I think I deserve someone stronger.” He smiles fondly at her. Mostly in jest, she glances pointedly at Spock’s disinterested back. 

Kirk snorts, “Don’t even think about it.” And she consents. 

Still, the prelude makes it easier to ask, “Do you mind if I have a look through the crew manifold, Captain?” He lifts an eyebrow, but the way she’s set it up, he’s probably just thinking about keeping her from his precious Vulcan. 

He tells her, “Have at it,” and turns back in his chair. Nyota looks just as fondly at the back of his head; he’s going be getting some very nice toys at the end of the month because of this, even if he doesn’t know it yet. Happy officers make for happy captains. 

Opening the crew list, Nyota narrows the list down to ensigns. Anyone could be demoted on her whim with Kirk’s word. She’d like someone who could do all the usual things: cook, clean, maybe, if they’re lucky, warm her bed. 

Maybe even keep away that space wide loneliness, but she’s a realistic woman, and yeomen are pets, not partners. Still, she can daydream. 

Half the ensigns she ‘no’s on sight, the other half she doesn’t know. She’s at the very end when the file shifts suddenly: real-time alteration. ‘Wallace’ pops up between ‘Vallard’ and ‘Wilson.’ Nyota instantly cuts into the file—Wallace, Carol.

Because information is her business, Nyota easily accesses previous crew logs. The name wasn’t there a minute ago, nor was it a day ago, nor was it before shore leave. Nyota scans the assembly line of traded crew, all the new names posted to the Enterprise, but there is no Wallace anywhere on them. 

Nyota leans back in her chair, interest sufficiently piqued. This is the sort of thing she _should_ tell Kirk about... after her own investigation. It could be a computer glitch. 

Or it could be a stowaway or a spy. Nyota traces the signal—the console from which the new file was added. It’s down in Engineering, in the weapon’s locker. In an instant, Nyota’s sent a comm to Scotty: a simple request for the contents of that locker. 

Scotty sends back: _Richardson, Keenser, and Wallace. Why?_

No guessing games there as to the perpetrator. So someone’s really walking around with that name then. She supposes Scotty would mention if there were a thinly-veiled Klingon or random intruder strolling around his section. Temporarily appeased, she cuts the feed without answering. 

She’ll look into this. Not now, obviously—she’s still on duty, and detouring will alert attention. Then she’ll either lose her personal advantage or be accused of withholding information. Her console beeps with an incoming signal: a private comm from Organia. Top priority. Everything from Organia is. 

She patches it through to the captain’s chair, musing on new discoveries.

* * *

“I don’t really like him,” Janice admits, and Nyota closes the file. No sense having a yeoman that’ll clash with Kirk’s; he’s not a wise man to pick fights with. Nyota pulls up the next candidate, and Janice squints at it over her shoulder, thinking. 

Ideally, Nyota would like someone like Janice. Easy on the eyes, sweet, good with her hands. But Janice is too young, and her strength is limited, and when Nyota inevitably dominates her prey, she wants to feel that power’s well earned. Janice still hasn’t answered when the bridge doors open, Kirk strolling through. 

Janice snaps to attention instantly, darting to his side. She holds her PADD tight against her chest, squishing her small breasts as she trails him to his chair. Then she wordlessly holds it down for a signature. He barely even looks at it. He asks her offhandedly while various stations filter in their reports, “Are you headed to Engineering?”

“No,” she squeaks, “Hydroponics, actually—”

But he cuts off her. “Change of plans. Go down to Engineering and fetch me something—Scotty owes me. He knows what.” And Kirk winks audaciously at her, as though they need any help knowing that ‘something’ is unsavoury. Janice nods, ready to swap her whole life around. It reminds Nyota of something, and her legs need stretching anyway. Some days, her job can be very sedimentary. 

She suggests, “How about I fetch it instead, Captain.” Janice halts in her tracks, and Kirk looks back at her, grinning wide.

“I know you’re in charge of relaying messages, Lieutenant, but I didn’t fancy you a carrier pigeon.”

Meeting his challenge, Nyota smoothly returns, “If Scotty’s got something you want, maybe I want whatever’s left.”

Kirk just snorts, “Somebody’s bored.” But he waves his hand; he couldn’t care less. Or maybe he thinks she’ll stay for the party. “Sure, sure.” And Janice smiles so brightly at her, as if this is all one big favour. 

It’s sell-serving curiosity and nothing more, but Nyota still returns the smile—she never turns cute girls away. She pulls the transceiver out of her ear and leaves it at her station—there’s been absolutely nothing interesting since this morning anyway. 

In the turbolift, Janice, hugging her PADD tight again, chirps, “Thank you.” 

Nyota replies, “Thank me later,” with an obvious wink. Janice turns a pretty shade of pink that clashes with her red uniform, but the way she bites her lip and averts her eyes says she isn’t opposed to the idea. Everyone takes liberties with yeomen, and Kirk’s far too nonexclusive to mark her off-limits for the rest of the crew. Out of the other candidates Janice probably entertains on a regular basis, Nyota’s willing to bet she’s a damn good option. 

But she’s not a dog, and she doesn’t slap Janice’s ass on the way out of the turbolift like she thinks of doing. It sinks down another few floors, doors opening. Engineering is abuzz with fellow red-shirts and moving technology. It’s always one of the busiest places on the ship: no time to slack against bulkheads and torpedoes.

Scotty’s never too hard to find, of course; he’s very hands-on, never tucked away in his office—except when drunk—often barking orders. Even now, Nyota can hear his voice in the distance through the clashing of metal and the shrill ringing of various instruments. Still, it’s not her primary goal. She weaves her way around the far end of the deck, down a side corridor, through various clouds of steam. The weapon’s locker is in the back, sectioned off with a metallic door and security panel. Today, the door’s already open, a man disappearing in and out of it with various locked boxes. Nyota pauses at the end of the hall, not needing to go any further. 

She knows who ‘Wallace, Carol’ is immediately, because she’s smart enough to put two and two together. The woman fixed in the small, cramped room is familiar; the same ensign that had trouble getting aboard earlier that week. Straight, blonde hair swings just over her shoulders as she leans to examine a particular phaser model, breasts heaving forward as her body arcs, lithe figure bent to perfection. Her short, blue top hangs off her chest, plenty of space between it and her ribs, her pale skin sensuous and all exposed, straight to the plunging hipline of her uniform’s skirt, stuck out with the curve of her ass. Their uniforms are all short, but the way ‘Carol’ bends exaggerates it worse. She rests one hand on her knee, the other set of fingers delicately wrapped around a tricorder. She’s a science officer, then, specializing in weapons, down here in the nitty-gritty of the ship. Beauty and brains: the corners of Nyota’s lips twitch up. 

As Carol straightens again, her head tilts, the yellow strands around her face slipping over her perfect cheekbones. Her iridescent eyes seem fascinated with the results of her examination, even from this far away. One hand slips to her waist, and it unwittingly drags the fabric of her skirt lower, exposing the gentle jut of bone, the taut line of her stomach. A few more centimeters, and Nyota would see whether or not she’s a natural blonde. Carol bites her plush bottom lip, nearly begging for attention. 

Then she seems to catch on that she’s being watched, and she glances up. Her eyes scan across to the open corridor, halting on Nyota so abruptly that her pretty mouth opens a sliver. She stares right back, breath catching. Nyota holds that gaze, chin rising a few centimeters, _daring_ Carol to keep looking. Nyota smirks too broadly.

That tips the scale. Carol’s cheeks stain a delicate pink. Her eyes hold several seconds beyond Nyota’s expectations, then turn abruptly away, clearly trying to return to work. But there’s something less sure in the way she holds her tricorder, the way she stands. Nyota continues to watch—you don’t see a woman like that everyday.

“What can I do fer you, Lieutenant?” a Scottish brogue breaks in—Nyota turns. Scotty’s crept up on her, sloppy smile all over his face. She lifts one smooth eyebrow. 

“I believe you have something for the captain...?” 

“Aye, but I cannae give it to you to deliver, I’m afraid!” He gives her that ‘these-gifts-are-meant-to-be-shared-with-friends’ sort of look, and she sighs, figuring as much. The whole point of offering gifts is to gain favour, and if she delivers it, she’ll get half the credit. Absently, she checks the internal clock on the wall beside her; alpha shift ends in an hour: he could deliver it himself. In the meantime, he suggests, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you joining me fer a little sample?” As though if he gets her drunk, he’ll get her body.

No chance of that. Alcohol—the most likely thing for the gift to be—does make her easy, but not in a way Scotty can handle. Still, she can’t blame him for trying. And after the eyeful she just got, a little fun might be welcome. Weighing out the options, Nyota decides, “One glass,” and follows his giddy steps to his office.

* * *

She doesn’t stay, of course. The captain has enough grabbing hands when he’s sober, but the mutual respect leaves the room quick when scotch is involved. She delivers it with Scotty, a little tipsy herself, and takes her leave despite their offers. There’s no room for her to win in Kirk’s bed, and she’s no one’s one-night conquest. She returns to her quarters alone and plops onto her bed, clumsily unzipping her boots. When she kicks out of them, she leaves them where they fly. This would be the point of a yeoman. She’ll clean them up tomorrow. She pulls her top off, unclips her bra, and falls back to the mattress to push out of her skirt and panties all at once. Her drawers seem too far away to bother with pajamas. 

As she slips beneath the covers, she reaches for the PADD on her nightstand. She orders the lights down, and the blue glow of the screen washes over her face, quickly tapping into the main console’s system. She has research to do, foggy-headed or not. From under the warm embrace of her covers, she checks with Fleet records for ‘Carol Wallace.’

It takes a bit of digging. Nothing comes up immediately, but Nyota’s nothing if not savvy with information. She was valedictorian in every class she ever took, and she knows her way around just about every Empire protocol. She starts with public records, then the Academy, then down through HQ. Narrowing to the human species and science division helps somewhat, and she assumes an Earth residency based on pickup location. Carol looks to be in her twenties and can’t be more than thirty, and that narrows it down further. Still, there are no available records no matter where she looks. 

Fake name, then. Not so unusual, not in the Empire. She could cross check the given and surnames separately, but the name could be entirely fictional. At least the picture attached to the Enterprise’s record matches Carol’s true face. Facial recognition software isn’t usually a part of record-tracking—not with as many aliens as there are in the Empire and such accessible cosmetic surgery, but it’s as good a place as any to start. As someone with access to all ship’s systems, it’s not difficult for Nyota to utilize programs available in the psyche lab. She runs Carol’s file through and sets the computer to crosscheck Fleet records, starting with any Earth-stationed science personnel within the last twelve months. The PADD whirs with the heavy burden of processing mass amounts of calculations, probably better suited to a grounded console. 

But Nyota’s computer is all the way on the other side of the room, and she can wait the few hours it might take. She sets her PADD back on the nightstand, knowing it will beep when it’s done. Whatever’s going on with Carol’s file, all Nyota knows for now is that it’s less than honest. 

A feline smile stretches across her face while she thinks of it: subterfuge always leads to debts. Nyota’s not the type to blackmail religiously, to take full advantage or torment, but everyone on the Enterprise is fully expected to take liberties where they can. Nyota hasn’t worked her way up Empire ranks by being particularly _nice_. An ally, particularly with weapon’s knowledge, is always good, willing or not. She may not have someone to put away her boots, but she could easily settle for someone with extra phaser schematics...

She could use someone like Carol for other things too. She wouldn’t pressure for _that_ , of course not, but a woman can daydream. Especially when their head’s already on a low buzz. With the whisper of scotch still lubricating her mind, it’s not difficult to conjure images of the pretty blonde woman soon to be under her thumb. If she _were_ that type of woman, what would she do, exactly?

Nyota’s hands idly slip beneath the blankets as she thinks, her eyes sliding closed against the darkness of her room—the working PADD the only light. She reaches her breasts and squeezes, holding them up and arching, wondering what this other woman’s might feel like in her hands. Carol’s are larger, fuller, plump, would be so ripe against her palms. Nyota squeezes harder and bites her lip, rubs her index fingers around her peaking nipples—what are Carol’s like? Probably little small, pink things, nice and rosy, like her lips. And with the upcoming blackmail, if Nyota were so inclined, she could play with those sweet buds all she liked. She could fasten little clamps to them, pebble them and pull them taut, run fine chains from collar to nipples, pulling them up. Or she could just suspend a chain between them, watch it sway with each step Carol took towards her new master...

Breath hitching, Nyota lets one hand drift past her ribs, following the lines of her muscled stomach, down through a small patch of coarse hair, between her smooth thighs. She rubs over her mound and wonders what Carol’s would look like, feel like, warm and wet in her hand. Carol looks like a screamer. She didn’t break for Hendorff, but she’d break for Nyota, writhe and plead for mercy, gasping and moaning with pleasure. A weapon’s specialist would have to have careful fingers, be good with her hands, but it’s Nyota that would do the first playing, scope her new toy’s luscious body. She’d trace the dip in Carol’s waist, the arch of her hips, the creamy skin of her thighs.... Nyota would bend over Carol, flatten their breasts together, crush and kiss the air from Carol’s lungs and purr naughty, filthy orders to leave the ensign—

The PADD beeps loudly from the nightstand, throwing Nyota’s eyes open. Her hands still, breath ragged, and her head rolls to stare. That was quick. The little minx can’t be too removed from the Fleet, then. Curious. 

While the PADD tires of its own beeping, Nyota debates continuing her daydream, but, as a pragmatic person, ultimately opts for information. She retrieves the file and scans the match its provided. 

Then she dawns a lavish smirk. 

As Spock would say: _fascinating_...


	2. Progress

It isn’t until two days later that the opportunity presents itself: all laid out like a birthday cake on a silver platter. 

Nyota strolls into the messhall with the usual mission parameters in mind, eyes sweeping the busy room on her way to the Synthesizer. She orders a salad, a croissant, a side of chocolate and sparkling water, and she grins at the machine, enjoying the results of her scan. Most of the upper-level crew are ‘friends’ with Nyota, in whatever strangled capacity, but none of the usual empty chairs are now appealing. When her completed tray appears, Nyota picks it up and walks right past Sulu’s open invitation. At the back of the room, the only Roylan aboard is hopping out of his too-big chair and heading off. 

That leaves poor little Ensign Carol Wallace all on her lonesome at the two-person table. Richardson’s also headed there, but at one sidelong look from Nyota, he quickly swerves off. She’s claimed her territory.

She slips her tray down next to Carol’s and takes the empty seat, settling into her chair with the grace of a Greek statue. Crossed legs, high posture, coy expression. A perfect opportunity indeed: all alone, perfectly natural. Carol pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, pasta toppling through the spokes as she stares. ‘Gapes’ might be the better word.

Her pretty pink lips snap shut a second later, cheeks glowing to match. She sits up a little straighter. Even if she doesn’t know Nyota’s position, Nyota conducts herself with an air of command. She looks back at Carol, flawlessly confident, and asks, “How are you, Ensign?” As if bridge officers do this all the time. Carol’s fork descends to her plate.

She glances aside, finds no help, and answers in the same accent she had on the shuttle, “Fine, thank you.” Her cheeks darken, struggling—she clearly doesn’t know how to address Nyota and oddly opts for nothing, then adds, “And... and yourself?”

One brow crooked, Nyota repeats a cryptic, “Fine.” She begins to eat her salad, as though Carol’s already lost her interest, but in the corner of her eye, she’s noticing all the details. Carol’s obviously surprised, tense, but not shaking, and after a moment, Carol returns to eating her spaghetti, albeit slower. There’s a PADD next to her, but it’s off, probably clicked shut the moment Scotty’s little oyster-y sidekick joined her. Smart, then. Nyota doesn’t bother to ask what’s on it; ensigns are always overworked. Especially under Scotty. But then, if Carol’s technically in the science division, she might actually report to Spock...

Though she knows her way around a phaser almost as well as Sulu, Nyota’s never bothered much with the weapons division. So long as they bring her what she needs in time, that’s all that matters. Now she finds herself pondering which situation’s more likely—Scotty pinning a trembling Carol to a bulkhead or Spock smoothly ignoring Carol’s longing looks. Pretty much everyone in Engineering gets drunkenly harassed at one time or another, but Spock... he’s probably the only commanding officer on the Enterprise, maybe the entire Terran Empire, to never take advantage.

Too bad, really, because Carol looks built to be taken advantage of. She sits with proper posture and eats away at her food, eyes fixed on her plate, the scoop neck of her thin uniform showing off a lovely display of cleavage. Every time she bends forward to slip her fork between her lips, Nyota gets a plunging view between her full breasts and the silver fastener of her bra.

They eat in continued silence, amusing for Nyota and probably unsettling for Carol. Observing is key: she likes to know everything she can about potential minions. When Nyota’s down to just her chocolate and Carol’s down to nothing, Nyota draws out her presence by offering, “Chocolate, Ensign?”

Freezing in the midst of trying to rise, Carol politely says, “Ah, no thank you...”

Nyota simply lifts an eyebrow and asks, “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t like chocolate before.” Excluding S’Parva in Psyche—chocolate is deadly to Katellans. Humans, generally speaking, have no good excuse to say no. Something flickers through Carol’s eyes, greyish, her right one tinged green and the left one blue. She’s probably wondering if it’s safe to refuse more than once. After a moment’s pause, she correctly decides not. 

She sits back down and holds out her palm, delicate fingers still and nails unpainted, cut jaggedly: the hands of a petty worker. Nyota breaks the simple piece of dark chocolate in two and places one square into Carol’s open hand. She purrs with half-lowered lids and a promise in her eyes, “Sometimes we have to reward ourselves for a job well done.” Carol looks curious but restrained.

She smartly says nothing but, “Thank you,” and lifts the chocolate to her lips. She sucks on half before she bites it, plush lips closed around it, and Nyota unabashedly stares. After the first bite, Carol pops the rest into her mouth. Her small, pink tongue darts out afterwards to swipe her lips clean. She’s a vision. 

She smiles, guarded, and climbs back to her feet. She doesn’t take the PADD; perhaps it wasn’t hers or perhaps she’s forgotten it. She bows slightly, hesitates, searches for the right thing to say, and finds nothing. Then she turns stiffly and heads for the table of used dishes. 

Nyota, grinning like the predator she’s about to be, picks up her tray and follows. When Carol leaves the messhall, Nyota follows her there too. It’s clear that Carol knows this from the way her gate tightens, steps unnaturally rigid. They stroll down the corridor. 

They pass a small intersection, and Nyota reaches out, threading her fingers right into Carol’s sunshine-yellow locks. Carol instantly gasps in pain, but there’s no time for her to do anything but grab for her own skull, trying to shield it while Nyota yanks her aside. Nyota tugs Carol by the hair off into a side-corridor, easily and with no screams, just the gentle whimpering of Carol’s distress. The second they’re immersed in the shadows of the never-used dead end, Nyota lets go. 

And she uses that moment of surprise to shove Carol up against the wall, effectively pinning her in place. Carol sinks back, hands useless at her sides, while Nyota slips a thigh between hers and gives her no place to run. Nyota’s fingers stay fisted in the small expansive of fabric concealing Carol’s chest, hyper aware that she could easily tear it all away. 

She could hike up Carol’s skirt, bind Carol’s wrists with her own sash, and fuck her right here. It would be easy, so easy. Carol probably wouldn’t even scream; she hasn’t already. She looks at Nyota with wide eyes and a heaving chest, breathing hard and not even attempting to struggle. So much for the strength Nyota thought she saw. 

Still, she tilts her head, close enough that her lips almost brush Carol’s cheek as she leans in to Carol’s ear. Carol tilts her head back, whining hoarsely. Their breasts press together, squish in, quickening Nyota’s breath, making Carol’s falter, ghosting across Nyota’s face. Carol’s whole body is soft, warm, built to be _touched_. Resisting it is... difficult. 

Nyota focuses. She keeps the same purr as earlier, dangerous and alluring. She whispers in Carol’s ear, “I know your secret... Ms. _Marcus_...” And Carol gasps, arching. 

Nyota only pulls back enough to see Carol’s face, looking away, eyebrows scrunched together and teeth biting one bruised lower lip. Nyota’s eyes flare—a weak spot indeed. She smirks so hard that she feels like she’s bearing fangs. She waits for Carol’s offer, but it doesn’t come. There’s something off about Carol, off about everything, the way she moves and works and doesn’t seem to understand the way a starship operates. Maybe _Carol Marcus_ , hasn’t been on one before; maybe she’s just stayed crushed under daddy’s boot. To make it clear, Nyota slips one hand over Carol’s neck, smoothly traveling to Carol’s cheek, thumbing soft skin and brushing back blonde hair. She sighs, “This is where we make a deal...” Carol’s eyes dart around: _Oh_.

Her lips open. Close. She licks them: a dangerous move, but she clearly can’t help it, is nervous. Nyota’s hand slips away from her face, tracing down the contours of her side. Nyota’s long fingers splay over Carol’s exposed midsection, down over the sash, the skirt, onto Carol’s smooth thigh, held up by Nyota’s own. She could demand what she wants, but... watching, _feeling_ Carol squirm is so much better.

Then Carol tilts her head, and she moves forward, pressing her mouth right into Nyota’s.

Nyota’s so shocked that her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. She almost jerks back, caught off guard—she was supposed to be the one playing games, and she wasn’t even going that far. She doesn’t move, and it’s quick, chaste, leaving the lingering hint of strawberry lip-gloss. Mere centimeters apart, Carol sensually murmurs like some Orion slave, “ _Is my body enough?_ ”

Well _fuck._ And here Nyota was trying to cling to some stray scrap of decency. So much for playing around.

With that offer on the table, she can’t help it. Something hot and fiery twists through her blood, and she suddenly bucks so hard into Carol that Carol gasps, slammed back into the wall. Both of Nyota’s hands reach for Carol’s waist, squeezing and pulling Carol in, holding her down, trapping her so close to Nyota’s body that the peripherals of passing officers could easily mistake them for one person. Nyota can’t help but chuckle darkly, fingers tracing the brim of Carol’s skirt, “I meant information, but good to know how eager you are.” Carol colours instantly, even though she started the real show. 

Nyota drifts around the back, pulling Carol’s ass a few millimeters from the wall and squeezing once, drinking in the gorgeous whimper it earns. Carol doesn’t protest. Her arms have grown stiff at her sides, but she doesn’t push Nyota away. Nyota kneads the soft flesh in her hands through the thin fabric of a Starfleet uniform, making a map in her head of just what this ass would look like bare. Scrumptious. Round, pert, pink and pretty. It’d probably colour easily if she slapped it, gave Carol a proper spanking for not being clever enough to better hide a secret. She watches Carol’s face as she works, and when she lets go, Carol whines like she’s in need. 

Sucking in a breath, Nyota pauses. Her hands stay on Carol’s hips, ready to slam, ready to retract. It occurs to her that she could play with Carol like this right through both their shifts, and Carol wouldn’t stop her. It’s... something to consider. 

She knows that if she goes any further, she won’t be able to resist. This is the only reason Nyota finally pulls away, releasing Carol from the wall in the process. In the absence of Nyota’s leg, Carol’s skirt falls back into place, her lips open as she breathes hard. Nyota informs her, “You’re lucky I’m not the disturbed rapist ninety percent of the men on this ship are.” A small smirk. “I just enjoy... a stray feel, now and then.” Carol’s face paints with confusion, and Nyota nods, mind made up. She hadn’t even meant to go that far.

But Carol practically _asked_ for it. Carol’s arched towards her, even now. She forces herself to take a step towards the end of the corridor, and she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll be in touch.” Then she turns and stiffly leaves before her resolve can crumble into absolutely nothing.

She still has the rest of her shift to finish, but she figures she can jerk off in Kirk’s ready room. Won’t be able to think straight without it. He’s offered before.

Thanks to Carol, she might finally take him up on it.

* * *

She has several things to consider now, different options and different outcomes, consequences for any mistakes. A small battle within herself; just how much of a monster is she willing to be? Starfleet officers _take_ what they want, but Nyota would like to think she shouldn’t have to. At least not from innocents.

She still hasn’t decided quite how she wants to play this, and she knows that every moment she waits to decide makes her prey uneasier. Nyota’s patient. She lets that knowledge amuse her as she goes about her own business, still dabbling in different daydreams.

She’s in the middle of checking Hydroponics’ intercom messages when a new one comes through, a small blip in the corner of her screen. Nyota sets it to wait and continues her monitoring, though of all the departments, Hydroponics is the least interesting. Security is the one where dissent usually starts, but Nyota checks every corner of the ship anyway. Reporting plots before they happen is part of her stay-two-steps-ahead-of-the-game system. On a starship as important as the Enterprise, it’s important to keep on top of _everything_.

And when she’s finally finished—no signs whatsoever of mutiny, as expected—she opens the new message. It appears on her screen in an obviously coded selection of numbers and stray symbols: something to raise Nyota’s eyebrow. The origin of the message is aboard this vessel, and there’s rarely ever a need to code things within it. It’s not as if anyone’s going to have top-secret information that didn’t already go through her console. At the head of communications, Nyota’s first to know _everything_.

Because there’s a ten-minute gap in her usual itinerary, Nyota doesn’t bother with decoding programs. She could use something to do, and it’s infinitely more interesting to test her own skills, her keen eyes swiping over the thin lines of probably-information. More often than not, her eyes are enough. When no discernable patterns come to mind, she sighs and runs it through a basic processor. 

It takes her four programs and seven minutes to decipher the simple message, which turns out to be no more than: _I apologize for my inappropriate assumption. W._

Well, there’s a first. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the signature, although signing something as ‘Wallace’ when they both know that’s not Carol’s true name feels vaguely disingenuous. Though Nyota has more to do, she winds up wasting a good sixty seconds staring at the screen. It’s not often she harasses someone in a hallway and garners herself an apology from it.

For someone who spends their days around highly advanced weapons, Carol’s sure acting like a skittish mouse. Nyota can’t deny being impressed over the coding mechanism, but the message itself leaves something to be desired. 

Deleting the original and purging all evidence from ship’s systems, Nyota answers with a piece of advice. One career woman to another. _Don’t offer things you don’t want to give._ Nyota doesn’t bother to encrypt it. Whether or not Carol is stupid enough to share the contents of her inbox, Nyota’s not stupid enough to commit incriminating words to type. 

She waits for an answer but grows bored when she doesn’t receive one for a total of two minutes. She returns to her usual work in the meantime, currently updating mission information with Starbase Ten. This goes on for a good dozen more minutes.

Then she receives a short: _Thank you._ Which, really, could mean just about anything. 

But she doesn’t further the conversation, and neither does Carol. She knows the delay must have been hesitation. 

She files that away and proceeds with business as usual.

* * *

The next time Nyota decides to take a stroll down to Engineering, she gets lucky. She does have a message to relay to Scotty, but it can wait, and her ulterior motives are obvious.

There’s no one else in the weapon’s locker, just little Carol, all alone, bent over a stack of metal crates in the corner. She looks up as Nyota strolls in, but not in time to stop Nyota from locking the door. A simple key sequence override, and the only light in the crowded little room is from blinking blue sensors and the faltering fluorescents above. 

Carol gets slowly to her feet, cheeks already flushed, and Nyota doesn’t miss the way Carol’s eyes sweep her body, posed as it is. Nyota crosses her arms over her chest, hips thrust to the side, simply watching. Carol watches her back, unable to look only at her eyes. 

When Nyota finally steps forward, Carol doesn’t even bother to step back. She lets Nyota swoop in on her, loop an arm around her waist and pull her in like the last time they met, face to face. Carol’s teeth are tight together, lips parted, but the way she looks at Nyota says precisely what she’d give up, and perhaps not just because of her secret. It makes Nyota’s skin prickle, blood rush. She waits for Carol first. 

Carol murmurs quietly, “There’s nothing worth spying on in here.” Nyota’s lips curl into a grin, eyes scanning she shelves beside them, long torpedo casings stretching from wall to wall. Carol breathes, “A new shipment of torpedoes, but that’s all.” Nyota pretends to examine them just for show. 

If she wanted weapons information, she could forge a note from the captain, or better yet, ask the captain, and Scotty would tear the whole place apart in pursuit of a report. Mostly to test the waters, Nyota sighs, “I might want to know more than just your area, my little puppet.” At the way Carol’s eyes widen, Nyota can’t help the amusement that slips into her voice, conjuring scenarios. “Say, for instance, I might want you to keep track of the captain...?” Hardly something Nyota couldn’t do, but how far would Carol go...?

Carol laughs uneasily. That would be suicide, and anyone with half a brain knows it. She tries to joke, “I think I’d rather you just take my body, then.”

Nyota’s lips go tight. She warns before she can stop herself, “Be careful what you wish for.” And her arm squeezes possessively around Carol’s waist. She pulls Carol tighter, tighter, can smell the sweet aroma of fruit shampoo and see each tiny pore on Carol’s face. Carol’s melting in her arms: would crumble _so easily_. She doesn’t squirm, doesn’t push, doesn’t even look particularly scared. Nyota searches Carol’s face. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Carol _wanted_ this. She muses, “I let you get away once, but I’m not angel.” And Carol just gulps and nods. 

Nyota lets Carol go. Her hands slip loose, and she wants to resist, play her cards better. She has an _admiral’s daughter_ in her hands, and that’s worth far more than _sex_. But Carol still doesn’t move. Nyota has the sudden, inexplicable urge to shove down that flimsy little skirt and see if Carol’s as wet as she looks. 

Then Carol tries to turn, perhaps to go back to her job, and Nyota snaps. Just when she thought she was managing self-control. No one on the Enterprise is even close to an angel.

In a heartbeat, they’re crushed together, Nyota slamming Carol right into the wall, and Carol’s knees buckle over the crates. She topples down, and Nyota grabs one knee, jerking her around by it, spreading her legs and stepping between them. The crates are high enough that Carol’s heels can’t reach the ground, thin enough that her shoulders can hit the wall, her head bending back as Nyota towers over her. One of Nyota’s hands slips around the back of Carol’s neck, in through soft, glossy strands, holding her ready. But something tells Nyota she wouldn’t need to. 

When she leans in to bring their lips together, Carol’s fingers lift tentatively to her shoulders. They press in, palms soft against her skin, never quite pushing as Nyota does. Nyota keeps it chaste at first, but an easy lick across Carol’s lips and she’s gasping, opening up for Nyota’s busy tongue. Nyota plunges inside, tilting and sweeping down, while her other hand finds Carol’s ass and squeezes, ushers it forward. Carol scoots up, so close to Nyota’s crotch, and presses into her thighs. Carol’s entire body arches into the contact, giving in. 

Nyota meant to be light, just sampling, but the kiss turns fierce, fast. She swipes over Carol’s flat tongue and explores the line of Carol’s rabbit teeth, dulled and solid and obediently still. She traces the roof of Carol’s mouth and nips at Carol’s bottom lip, tugging it between her teeth. Carol whimpers, leans in, tries to kiss back, but she’s weak and submissive and falters whenever Nyota’s tongue pushes hers away. Her hips rock against Nyota’s body, eager and wanting, clearly trying not to hump Nyota’s leg like the bitch-in-heat she is. Nyota _can’t resist._

As the hand not fisted in Carol’s hair slips around Carol’s waist, Carol’s fingers skim down Nyota shoulders. They stop at Nyota’s breasts, just before touching them, nearly trembling, and Nyota growls, not sure if she means to urge them on or halt them. She presses her chest down into Carol’s; Carol’s breasts yield delightfully beneath hers, bra too thin and forgiving. Nyota’s fingers shift over the waistband of Carol’s skirt, and then she’s pressing down through short tufts of hair, and Carol doesn’t stop her. 

Carol moans with her whole body, hips bucking forward the minute Nyota’s fingers are inside her panties. Nyota doesn’t play around, goes straight for the gold, teases the tip of Carol’s slit and cups her mound, feeling the slick juices already sticking to her fingers. She can’t help but smirk against Carol’s lips, and she doesn’t need to open her eyes to see Carol’s eagerness; she can _feel_ it. Carol is putty in her hands. Carol clings to her shirt, and Nyota rubs one finger between Carol’s slit, just barely pressing between the soft folds. She doesn’t penetrate, doesn’t touch Carol’s clit, just rubs and wonders how long it’ll take to make Carol come. How long do they have before Scotty grows suspicious of a locked compartment? Is there time to shove Carol to her knees and force her to lick at Nyota’s pussy, eat her right out? Probably not. But there’ll be time later, always is. 

Nyota pulls away from Carol’s mouth and kisses a light trail across her cheek, up over to her ear, nibbling at the shell. Carol whines and moans, her breath fluttery and light, tinted with her pretty foreign accent. Her hands slide back up Nyota’s shoulders, and Nyota lets Carol wrap trembling arms around her neck and hold on tight. Nyota chuckles darkly in Carol’s ear, “So you _want_ to give me your body, after all... isn’t that right, _Carol Marcus_?” Carol keens, practically begging for it. Nyota messily kisses her cheek and purrs, “You want me to make you come, right here at work, want me to blackmail you and own you and make you do all sorts of naughty things...” Carol doesn’t protest. Such a good girl. She bucks into Nyota’s hand wildly, and Nyota finally flickers her thumb over the little nub at the top of Carol’s pussy, earning a strangled cry. “You want to be _mine_...” 

Carol cries, wonton and beautiful, “ _Ohhh!_ ” And it sounds like ‘yes’ to Nyota’s ears. 

And a minute later, Carol’s writhing, breaking and whining pathetically, spilling all over Nyota’s fingers. Nyota keeps rubbing, milking it out, giving Carol the barest minimum of touch and watching her fall apart in it. Either Carol’s particularly easy, or she _likes_ to be dominated, _wants_ Nyota desperately. Or maybe she’s used to it; maybe she rebelled against daddy by selling her body to anyone that would take it. She shudders in Nyota’s arms and slumps, falling back against the wall and panting. 

Her lips are kiss-swollen. Her cheeks are rosy, pupils dilated, hair a bit of a mess from where Nyota grabbed it. She looks debauched and the closest thing to an angel the Enterprise has ever seen, just fallen. 

She looks up at Nyota, big eyes and open mouth, and Nyota has the inexplicable urge to _laugh_.

Instead, she bends to whisper in Carol’s ear, “Come to my quarters tomorrow after your shift.” If nothing else works out, at least there’s something to do. And she only smirks at the beeping of the door: perfect timing. Carol jumps, looking vaguely horrified. 

Nyota doesn’t say where her quarters are. If Carol’s smart enough to encrypt messages and work on torpedoes, she’s smart enough to figure it out. She hurriedly straightens her skirt as Nyota pulls away, stalking over to the door. 

Nyota barely looks at the control as she types in the release code. The doors spring open a second later, and a stunned Richardson stands with his fists in the air, like he was trying to pound it down. Idiot. 

Just to be clear, because Carol’s utterly irresistible and Richardson’s already glancing over at her, hunger slipping onto his face, Nyota tells him quite flatly, “You see that?”

He dazedly answers, “Uh, Yeah...”

“That’s mine. Don’t touch my things unless you want a broken arm.” She smiles sweetly at him despite the warning, showing just how easy she finds the notion. He looks back at her, frowning. 

She outranks him. Even if she didn’t, she’s a dangerous woman to cross, and she’s not afraid of men half a meter taller than her. Predictably, he doesn’t argue. 

Nyota doesn’t look back. She’s got the perfect picture in her head already and some stuff to sort out. There go any plans of seducing a commander to move up in the world. Unless she wants to discard such a pretty thing or commit herself to two sets of sex as well as fingering helpless ensigns in corners. Sometimes she’s not even sure why she clings to any scrap of quickly-decaying morals.

Sometimes she’s glad the Empire precedent is hell in space.

* * *

A part of it’s just _too_ easy, and Nyota doesn’t actually expert Carol to show. 

Yesterday, Nyota spent her shift going over Engineering and Science-division personnel, finding little to no one of interest enough to bother sending a spy after. Except for Spock, of course—the one man who knows every last detail of their illustrious captain. But Carol has no better hope of getting in with Spock than anyone does, blue shirt or no, and Nyota dismisses the possibility. Scotty also carries sufficient weight in the Empire, but again, Carol couldn’t get anything out of him that Nyota couldn’t get herself. That just leaves Dr. McCoy, a man who Nyota doesn’t actually have much ties to and Carol could easily suck up to. But Dr. McCoy has wandering hands and a reputation, and somehow the idea of losing Carol’s interest to him doesn’t seem worth the possible rewards. In short, an indebted ensign isn’t so useful as she would’ve thought. Too bad she couldn’t have discovered the secrets of another lieutenant or commander.

There is, of course, the admiral, but Nyota’s going to break that in slowly. Keeping abreast of Starfleet movements from the source itself could prove insanely helpful, but Nyota has no guarantee that Carol would betray her father or even does have access. She is, after all, denying her name, and the reasons for that, Nyota still doesn’t know. She’ll have to slip in some talking at some point, even if Carol does tend to inspire something quite different than words. 

Carol’s due to arrive in a few minutes, and Nyota weeds through her drawers while she waits. The question is what to use. It’s not every day that Nyota finds someone so eager to submit, so beautiful when they do it. There’s no point sticking just to fingers this time. No, she has toys for this. She sorts through her assortment of vibrators and bindings and crops and clothing. What to use, what to use. She doesn’t know Carol’s limits yet. She doesn’t know if there’ll be a second time, not for sure, anyway. Maybe she’ll get bored, maybe Carol will break. When the doorbell rings, Nyota leaves the drawer open; she’ll decide as she goes. 

The doors slide open, and Carol’s standing on the other side, in full uniform and holding her arms nervously behind her back. The effect pushes her chest forward, and Nyota’s eyes can’t help but glance down, soaking in the body she’s about to have at her disposal. She stands aside and gestures in; Carol hurriedly shuffles past her. 

The doors shut again, escape cut off. 

Carol looks at her, hesitant but sure, and Nyota’s not even sure she _wants_ to determine the outlines of their arrangement. Leaving Carol in the lurch makes for a nice look. Carol opens her mouth first, and Nyota expects that to be asked, but instead, Carol mumbles, “What do you want me to do?” Nyota has to bite the inside of her lip to control her smirk. So easy.

A lot of things. But Nyota starts with nodding past herself towards the bedroom and drawling, “Follow me.” When she turns to walk, Carol falls in behind her. 

And then they’re in the bedroom, just like that, the most gorgeous woman Nyota’s yet to have, and this is shaping up to be the most interesting trip she’s had in a long, long time. She almost wants to promise Carol that the secret’s safe, because Nyota has no intention of letting others share in this fun. Is this even about the secret? Or is this about Carol lusting after senior officers? Nyota decides that until Carol makes trouble, it doesn’t matter. She gestures vaguely at her bed and purrs, “Strip out of your uniform and sit down.” Sit down and shut up, like a good girl. 

Carol looks perfectly torn between leaping to obey and too frozen to move. 

When she starts, it’s slow. She reaches for the straps of her shirt, pushing them slowly off her shoulders, and Nyota stands tall, still dressed, while she watches. Carol lifts the blue-and-black-and-gold-trimmed fabric from her body, leaving a black, laced bra that barely holds her heavy breasts. She holds her shirt out, and when Nyota doesn’t offer any help, she just drops it to the floor. She reaches behind her back and unclasp her bra, and before she slips it off, she mumbles, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Grinning lazily, Nyota almost laughs, “That you’re a liar, or that you’re easy?” Carol’s cheeks turn impossibly brighter. 

“My name,” she says. “It’s... it’s very important to me that my father doesn’t find out where I am.” And then she lets her bra fall forward, but she crosses one arm over her chest to hide her nipples. As the bra joins her shirt, her free hand pushes at her skirt, slowly shuffling it and the sash down. Nyota eyes the matching black panties underneath, a few strands of blond hair peaking out the tip. The skirt pools at Carol’s feet. 

She’s not in well with her father, then. A pity. An admiral under her thumb would be quite helpful. Nyota doesn’t feel any particular need to flex her muscles by way of threats, so she answers vaguely, “If you don’t give me a reason to tell, I don’t see why I would.” Carol nods as if to confirm her own behaviour. 

She takes a deep breath and pushes her panties down her thighs, letting go of her breasts in the process. Nyota doesn’t know where to look first: the little, rosy-pink nipples already half erect in the cold air, or the pink blush around Carol’s pale pussy. When she’s down to just boots and socks that she climbs messily out of, Carol straightens up, arms at her sides and just barely trembling, eyes steeling over. She doesn’t quite look at Nyota’s eyes, but it’s obvious she wants approval. She stares over Nyota’s shoulder, and Nyota carefully takes a step forward, circling her prey. 

Very, _very_ nice. She reaches out a hand, skimming Carol’s sides, and she enjoys the way Carol shudders at her touch, recoils when she scratches, nails leaving red trails across the flawless surface. No lower-level officer aboard an Empire starship is ever difficult to get in bed, but there’s something about Carol’s particular brand of looseness that has Nyota fill with pride. Is she herself so beautiful, so irresistible? Or maybe Carol’s just trying the same thing every new ensign does: fucking someone upper class to try and climb the later. Nyota chuckles at the thought; _she_ is the one taking advantage, not the other way around. 

She stops in front of Carol and palms Carol’s heavy breasts, earning a hitched breath. They’re soft and tender in her fingers, warm and malleable, perky and pretty. She tugs at Carol’s nipples just to watch Carol squirm, rubbing them to hardness. Carol reacts like a new virgin, but Nyota knows a pretty girl like Carol wouldn’t make it past puberty in their cesspool of an Empire. Carol’s eyes slip closed underneath Nyota’s ministrations, lips parting to suck in air. 

Nyota lets go and pats Carol’s hip, asking, “What did I tell you?”

Carol mumbles an instant, “Sorry,” and turns to drop to the bed. She sits with perfect posture, poised and ready, and waits for more instructions. Nyota eyes her up and down, still not quite sure on what to do. 

She’ll fuck Carol, of course, hard and fast, but sex is so much more than that. She turns back to her drawer and idly traces the contents, drawling aloud, “How do you feel about restraints?” Not that she particularly cares how Carol feels, but there are limits. She knows she struck an early nerve when Carol doesn’t answer right away, and when she looks back, Carol’s eyes are on the carpet. 

A moment later, Carol catches her watching and blushes impossibly brighter. She sucks in a breath and tries, “I suppose you don’t... don’t want to just... fool around?”

Nyota repeats dryly, “Fool around?” And she wonders, not for the first time, what the hell is going on in Carol’s head. 

Carol quickly murmurs, “Never mind. I... I’m sorry. Whatever... whatever you like.” And her face grows stronger again, as though ready to face the consequence of her actions. In this case, forging a name and transcripts. Nyota doesn’t comment, though she’s very aware that at some point, there will need to be a talk. 

For now, she decides to take Carol at her word. And whatever Nyota would like, at this point, would be handcuffs. She pulls them from the tangle of other things whilst eyeing the spreader bar and ankle cuffs, but, she thinks, she might as well start off light. She takes the lube and a simple vibrator with her, closing the door after with her hip. She turns to the bed with a feral hunger all over her face and warns Carol, “If you want out, now is your last chance to run.”

But Carol bites her lip and shakes her head, and she parts her thighs just enough to draw Nyota’s attention, like some basic, tribal offering. Nyota doesn’t need any more invitations. She grabs Carol’s wrist and drags her by it to the head of the bed, Carol twisting and scrambling to keep up. Nyota slams Carol’s hand against the headboard, clasps the handcuffs around it, loops through the metal ring she has just for this purpose, and holds out her hand. Carol obediently places her other wrist in it, letting Nyota cuff her to the headboard. She doesn’t even pull afterwards, doesn’t test her limits, just drops her head to the pillows and lies there: some beautiful, fair maiden just ripe for the picking. 

Nyota descends on her with a lust that’s been boiling for days. There’s no stopping it now, no reason to. She slams her mouth into Carol’s, thrusts her tongue into Carol’s mouth, claims it again and pulls back to bite her bottom lip. Carol makes a delicious noise, halfway between flinching and begging. 

Nyota repositions, settling in between Carol’s legs, and she spreads Carol’s thighs wider as she purrs, “Needy little thing, aren’t you.” Her eyes dart up; Carol looks confused. Nyota grins and places her hands on Carol’s stomach, runs up while she talks, playing over Carol’s ribs and grabbing at her breasts. “Running away from daddy, making eyes at the first woman you see and practically throwing yourself at her feet.”

Carol’s eyebrows knit together, and she starts, “I didn’t—”

But Nyota cuts her off with a stern, “I have both gags and muzzles in that drawer; don’t make me use one.” So Carol shuts her mouth again, quiet, only making little keening noises as Nyota kneads and tugs at her sensitive flesh. “As I was saying, for someone with a big, dark secret to hide, you aren’t exactly being... _subtle_.” 

Carol looks like she wants to speak but wisely doesn’t. Nyota chuckles and rewards her by bending down and licking one firm stripe up her breast, stopping at her nipple to suck on it, milking Carol out. Carol gasps and arches into Nyota’s mouth—Nyota slams her back down to the bed. Nyota’s kept on all her clothes, kept all her control, and even as she laves over Carol’s pert breasts, showering Carol’s body in attention, it’s obvious who has all the power. She licks her way to the other nipple and purrs around it, “Yes, of course, you think I’ll keep your secret if you only just _behave_ , but let’s not pretend that’s the only reason you’re here, my eager little slut. I see those big puppy eyes on me.” Trailing another set of kisses up to Carol’s chin, Nyota looks into Carol’s half-lidded eyes as she chuckles, “You _want_ to be my bitch, don’t you?” And Carol trembles, doesn’t dare shake her head. 

Carol makes a needy whining sound again. Nyota presses a kiss to the corner of her lips, noting, “You’re lucky I was the one who discovered your subterfuge.” The way Carol strains against her bonds to press her body up into Nyota’s says that she agrees, however ashamed she might be of it. One of her legs lifts to try and wrap around Nyota’s waist, but Nyota pushes it back down, half tempted to slap Carol for her insolence. But Nyota isn’t playing that sort of master. ...Yet. 

She muses darkly against the side of Carol’s face, “Or maybe you’re just lonely up here, desperate for a friend.” Nyota snakes her hand down Carol’s body while she says it, slipping right into the groove between Carol’s legs. When she presses in, Carol gasps loud and breaks her quiet. 

She begs, “ _Please_ ,” and her leg tries to lift again. 

Only because all this writhing and gasping is going straight to her own groin, Nyota finally obliges. She presses her finger into Carol’s slit, just like she did the other day, finding it just as warm and soaking wet. Carol cries out happily and humps Nyota’s hand; Nyota chuckles and pulls away. She can feel Carol’s eyes watching her in disappointment, but that changes when she reaches for the vibrator. She has a feeling she’s not going to need the lube, but she spreads it on anyway, just in case. No sense breaking a pet she just got. 

Then she’s back on Carol without any pretense, pressing the moist head of the toy to Carol’s slit. She rubs it back and forth and drinks in Carol’s moans before she pushes her finger in instead, sinking easily right to the knuckle, parting Carol’s velvety walls, stroking from the inside. The pressure is amazing, tight and clinging to her, and she starts to piston in and out. A second finger is easy to add. Carol tries to buck up into her, and Nyota has to place a hand over her stomach just to pin her down. Nyota pries Carol open, and in no time at all, Nyota can hold her right open for the tip of the vibrator. Its sparkling purple colour looks particularly divine against Carol’s pink lips. She presses in, and the rounded tip forces its way inside, making Carol gasp and throw her head back, blond hair tossing about Nyota’s pillow. Nyota licks her lips. She probably should’ve taken the strap-on...

Instead, she pushes the vibrator past Carol’s entrance, sinking it deeper and deeper, out a few centimeters, in twice as much, while Carol twitches and groans and bucks around it. Her hips lurch uncontrollably, legs spreading wider as she tries to take it, and Nyota keeps her ears open for any sign of pain, but it doesn’t come. Carol’s pussy swallows the vibrator until it’s almost completely inside, and only then does Nyota flip the switch on the end. 

Carol _howls_. She throws her head to the side and thrusts into Nyota’s hand, coming to pieces in a heartbeat. Nyota’s breath catches, but she doesn’t stop, pistons the thick rod in and out of what’s supposed to be her victim. It’s suddenly all clear why Carol submits to this so easily, why Carol practically pleaded for it—she’s not just a slut, she’s a fucking toy _built_ just for this. She takes the fake cock like she wants nothing else in life. She practically fucks herself on it, and she arches up her chest, wrists now straining at their bonds. Beads of lube and natural juices cling to and slide down the end of the vibrator while Nyota works it, in, out, in, out. She forgets about touching herself; she holds her breath and _stares_ at the way Carol seems to _need_ this. Nyota’s horny mind instantly sets into overdrive, wondering if Carol’s not escaping her father but some depraved sex-camp. Or maybe her _father_ fucked her, day in and day out, and now she doesn’t know any better, and even though she’s escaped, she can’t help but submit herself to the first warm body that comes along. _Fuck_. Nyota lunges down to slam their mouths together, kissing Carol hard while her mind races. 

She’ll have to ask about this. No, she doesn’t want to know, wants her own fantasy. She shoves the vibrator in and leaves it, and she straddles Carol’s legs properly while her tongue fills Carol’s mouth, fingers pushing down her panties. She hikes up her own skirt, leaves her underwear stretched around her thighs, and ruts her own hips down into Carol. The tip of her pussy rubs against the end sticking out of Carol, and Nyota grinds into it to feel its vibrations, feel Carol’s slit against hrs. She kisses Carol hard, over and over, dominating all the kisses that Carol fervently returns, and she humps Carol’s dripping pussy stretched wide around the toy. Carol’s going crazy beneath her. 

And then Carol loses it, breaks the kiss to _scream_. Her body pushes up, pussy jerking in the air as she comes, her whole body shivering beneath Nyota’s skin and clothes. Carol screams and gasps and pants, and she shudders violently in the aftermath while Nyota keeps humping her. 

And then Nyota’s following, more with a growl than a cry, teeth grit and one hand rubbing her own pussy. It’s more the sight and feel and smell and taste of Carol than anything—a shock of stimulation mounting in an avalanche of pleasure. She peaks in a blaze of rapture and tumbles downwards, forehead crashing into Carol’s as she pants. 

While they both come slowly down, slick with unnoticed sweat and the still humming toy, Nyota concedes aloud, “From now on, sex is part of this deal.”


	3. Position

The next step is easy, obvious. She doesn’t even have to prompt it. Kirk strolls right up to her station, the ever-prominent bulge in his pants right at her face, and he leans over the back of her chair to casually ask, “Have you picked a yeoman yet?”

A few taps of her fingers, and she brings up Carol’s file, the big, fat, lie of a name gleaming across the screen. Behind her, Kirk whistles. She can’t blame him. He won’t bother to go after Carol though, she knows—not when he has such easy prey already in access, and she’s marked this one as her own. Kirk’s a monster most times, but he treats his prize officers well. 

He tells her smoothly, “What my bridge officers want, they get.” He pats her shoulder, lingering just a little too long, and she can see her own smile reflected in the glass.

As he pulls away, she asks, curious, “Would you mind if I borrowed a few of your toys?” He stops to look back around at her, grin even broader. His eyes sweep the arch of her body, her folded legs and her puffed-out chest, and he waves his hand. She’s sure he’s trying to imagine just what she’ll take and just what she’ll do with it, and she leaves him to his fantasy. 

He calls, “Yeoman, provide Lieutenant Uhura with whatever she needs.” Janice, bent over the environmental control system in the corner, looks up. Her eyes go wide for a moment, always do at being called, but she relaxes when she realizes who exactly she’s serving. 

While Kirk finds his way back to his seat, Janice hurriedly scampers over to Nyota, PADD already at the ready. Nyota eyes it with mild amusement; it’s hardly going to be a huge list. She has her own resources. 

But she wasn’t quite ready for the new sorts of fantasies Carol inspires, and she has no qualms about keying her console into a list of available objects. Janice begins to scribble things down, and Nyota shoots out an arm to stop her, mumbling, “Hold on, just this. Aaand... this.” She jabs her finger at the screen. 

Janice writes it down and, with a bit of a pout, admits, “I suppose I’m a bit put out you didn’t pick me.”

Nyota snorts instantly. She knows Kirk can be a tyrant and can’t blame Janice for being afraid of that heat, but still only laughs, “You know you’re taken, Janice.” And furthermore, Nyota glances over her shoulder to ask, “And I wasn’t aware you were into women.”

“I’m into not being spanked for having the coffee a degree too high,” Janice scowls, but then she quickly pales, adding, “Please don’t tell the captain I said that.”

Nyota merely muses, “And what makes you think I wouldn’t spank you?” Janice’s lips twist. But she sighs. She couldn’t have held any real hope anyway. And from what Nyota can tell, despite a few side complaints here and there, no one ever wants to leave the bed of James T. Kirk. 

Nyota doesn’t break that rule, because she doesn’t particularly want in it in the first place. She wants a certain blonde woman several decks below her, and she says, “Thank you,” as Janice leaves to fetch supplies.

* * *

The transfer is quick. There’re three hours in the morning between Nyota waking up and Nyota having a shift to start, and at two away, the buzzer for her door rings. She heads over, knowing full well who it is and not quite sure how it’ll happen. Wonderful in the end, of course, but not everyone’s excited to be demoted from ensign to yeoman. 

The doors slide open, and Carol doesn’t look particularly put out. She looks nervous more than anything, and she walks swiftly inside, uniform the same as usual. As soon as the doors shut again, she asks, “You didn’t tell, did you?” Nyota arches an eyebrow, and Carol rushes on, “Because I’ve been demoted, and I don’t know—”

“It’s because I requested it,” Nyota says simply, cutting her off. “And no, I didn’t tell.” What would be the use in that? She has absolutely no desire to end their arrangement so quickly. That piece of information is only good while it’s kept quiet, and as Carol’s nerves seem to settle back down, she’s sure Carol’s realizing as much. Now, onto other questions. Nyota eyes the blue shine in Carol’s shirt and asks, “Any particular reason for the lack of a different uniform?”

“Oh,” Carol mumbles, looking startled. She glances down at herself, back up again and mutters, “I... Scotty told me I’m still permitted to work in the weapon’s locker, provided... provided it’s between your needs, of course.” She bites her own lip and quickly adds, so earnest, “I’ll be a good yeoman to you, I swear.” Her eyes are wide, like she expects Nyota to sweep that away at any moment, though she’s begging not to. 

Nyota isn’t quite _that_ cruel. So long as Carol comes running at her beck and call, what should she care about anything else? She won’t need a shadow every moment she’s on the bridge anyway. She drawls reassuringly, “I like my women with a bit of brains. Work all you like. ...So long as you please me in between.”

Brightening and nodding, Carol insists, “I will. I promise.” Licking her lips, she clarifies, “Please you, I mean.” Like there was any confusion. 

Nyota merely smirks. She reaches for Carol’s wrist, wraps her fingers tightly around it, and tugs forward. She walks Carol over to the desk where she left what Janice fetched her. Carol glances at them and flushes but doesn’t pull away. 

Carol _never_ pulls away. She obediently reaches back to hold up her hair, keeping the sleek strands off the back of her neck. Good girl. Nyota plucks the dark collar from the desk and fits it smoothly around Carol’s throat, fastening it around the back. It looks just like something a dog or a cat would wear, complete with a little metal hoop in the center that Nyota could attach a leash to. But that stays folded on the counter. Perhaps she’ll take Carol for a walk on all fours tomorrow, introduce her to the bridge that way. For now, Nyota simply pushes Carol’s shoulder, and Carol subserviently sinks to her knees. 

Nyota informs her smoothly, cupping her cheek and holding her head up, “You’re now my pet, my cute little kitty, understood?” Carol, clever girl, doesn’t talk, merely nods. “Good. It’s your duty to please me, no matter what role I have you play.” Carol nods more: of course. Grinning, Nyota forgoes more instructions in favour of bending down to press a kiss to Carol’s lips; Carol lifts to meet her. 

Then Nyota holds Carol back down and reaches for the hem of her own skirt, giving the only hint Carol should need. 

Carol leans forward to press a kiss to Nyota’s crotch, and the semi-permanent hesitation on her face fades into determination. There has to be a hell of a back-story to her, because she’s clearly willing to go all out to protect it. Someday, Nyota really will have to inquire. Just... not when she’s already a little wet with a pretty woman knelt at her feet...

Carol’s hands lift to Nyota’s thighs, and they begin to slide up as she trails her kisses lower. She ducks beneath the hem of Nyota’s skirt—clearly not the virgin she sometimes seems like—and she presses her lips to Nyota’s left thigh. She lingers, leaving the moist imprint of lips, and trails closer, closer, lips finally closing over the front of Nyota’s panties. Her teeth nip gently at the sheer fabric, and her eyes flicker up, clearly wanting permission. Nyota nods and leans back against the desk, switching angles. Carol shuffles to accommodate. Nyota’s fingers grip the edges for support; Carol’s fingers loop into the sides of Nyota’s panties. 

Torturously slow, Carol slides them down, and she kisses each new patch of skin she exposes, until Nyota’s panties are stretched across her thighs and her pussy’s exposed to the air. Carol’s breath is warm across her. Carol kisses her slit, right over her clit, and she’s given a brief, superficial lick that makes her bite the inside of her mouth. One hand reaches for Carol’s hair, brushing it back and holding it in, encouraging. Carol makes a mewling sound, not that unlike a cat. 

Carol presses her tongue between Nyota’s lips, and Nyota tilts her head back, groaning. This is going to be good. She can tell. She’s right. Carol licks her again, then flays over the nub, sucking it once into her mouth and suckling on it, tongue laving over the surface. Nyota’s fingers tighten in Carol’s hair; Carol better be into hair pulling. 

Carol lets go to start covering Nyota’s pussy in short, kittenish licks, lapping away at her folds, quick and relentless. Any hesitation she might’ve had is clearly out the window. She laps at Nyota’s pussy like she’s starving and has wanted this for _days_ , has lay in bed touching herself to the mere thought of it. After so much of this that Nyota’s sure she’ll burst, Carol turns the little licks into great stripes, full licks from start to finish, head disappearing right between Nyota’s legs, cheeks brushing her thighs. Nyota’s head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut. Carol licks and licks, and her tongue presses up, demanding entrance that Nyota’s soaking pussy is more than willing to give. 

And then Carol’s tongue is _inside_ her, feeling around her walls with utter abandon. Nyota tries to stay strong, tries to hold her hips still, but she can’t help the way her lips seem to quiver under Carol’s attention. She gives way and lets her body hungrily suck at Carol’s tongue while Carol sucks back, closes her mouth around Nyota’s folds and truly _sucks_. Her tongue stabs upwards, high as it can go, and Nyota’s other hand leaves the desk. She uses all ten fingers to shove Carol in, grind her hips into Carol’s face, while Carol tongue-fucks her hard. Nyota’s trembling. _Fuck_ , Carol’s _good_. Carol’s tongue pistons in and out and flicks over every side, teeth scraping just that tiny bit and lips trailing her, mouth as wide open as it’ll go. She can feel Carol’s nose digging into her pubic hair and Carol’s fingers tense around her sides. She fucks Carol’s face wildly and can feel her orgasm building in her bones.

Carol gives a sudden, slow, gorgeous lick of her insides, impossibly far up, and Nyota roars with her release, bucking forward and grinding into Carol’s open mouth. Carol makes a choking sound but takes it, mixing Nyota’s juices with her own saliva. Nyota rocks and rocks and finally shivers to an end, only then letting Carol’s hair go. 

Nyota’s too strong to fall to her knees, but she thinks about it, and she reaches back to the desk for support while Carol reemerges from her skirt. 

Carol blinks up at her, face flushed and lips soaking and chin stained. The collar around her neck is too big a turn-on: the proof that she belongs to Nyota. 

Nyota debates pushing Carol in and demanding a second round, while Carol asks huskily, “Where should I start cleaning, master?”

* * *

The first week is an invariable _bliss_ , despite both their busy schedules. Carol reports for duty every morning, stays late every night, rushes to the bridge any time Nyota calls. Carol’s a hard worker and never complains. She submits to everything Nyota puts her through, and she’s tremendously skilled in everything she tries. But yeomen don’t usually live with their masters, so it’s not until a week later that Carol actually takes a shower in Nyota’s room, after shift, having been put through a very messy several rounds. 

She emerges into the bedroom half an hour later, probably looking for her uniform, but Nyota’s already hidden it. She fully intends to dress Carol up in a thick vibrator, wide butt plug, glistening nipple clamps and the usual collar, but for now, she has work to do, and she’s getting hungry. 

So the apron over the chair next to Nyota’s is the only available clothing in her quarters, and Carol darts out of the bedroom for it. As soon as her fingers close around it, Nyota reaches out to grab her, not particularly amused with how ready her yeoman seems to be to get back into clothes. 

When she puts her PADD down and looks around, she finds Carol looking mildly terrified, and it’s easy to see why. Evidently, she was so busy with all her various assignments that she forget exactly _why_ she doesn’t shower in Nyota’s quarters. That ‘why’, now, is obvious.

When Carol snuck aboard the Enterprise, she clearly forwent a physical. Her skin, once perfectly flawless, is now a patchwork quilt of slipping makeup. Some areas are fine—her face, her arms, the bottom of her ankles—but her thighs and her breasts and more than half her midsection are bruised deep purples and blues, the peach particles of washed-away concealer clinging to the bottom. Everyone in the Empire’s had to use cover up makeup at one point or another, but Carol’s wounds are old and numerous and otherwise so expertly hidden that at first, all Nyota can do is be shocked.

Then she looks up at Carol’s unmarred face, and Carol hangs her head, clutching the apron tightly against herself. She doesn’t say anything, and Nyota, who spent half of yesterday fantasizing about spanking Carol raw, feels an uncharacteristic twinge of guilt. She searches for something to say, mostly questions, and ends up just letting Carol go. 

Carol hesitates, then briskly walks back to the bedroom. Nyota doesn’t bother to call after over where her own cover up is—their skin tones won’t match. Perhaps Carol will salvage the mess she made. Perhaps Nyota will have to escort her back to her rooms later. ... _Later_.

Nyota tells herself it’s part of Empire life and returns to her PADD. The curiosity, mild pain, and wriggling guilt don’t dissipate, but she fights to suppress it all. She didn’t make it this far by being _sentimental_. Hell, Chekov was probably in worse shape after his night in the agonizer last week, over something as simple as failing to answer the captain quick enough. If Carol wanted to escape cruelty, running to the Empire’s flagship was hardly a wise decision. 

Still... there’s something different about Carol. Chekov isn’t hers. Carol is. 

Carol reemerges half an hour later in the apron, steps more chastised than usual. She sets into cooking, sorting through Synthesizer chips for different base ingredients. If she at least brings them together naturally, it’ll taste better than a full blown technology-produced meal.

Nyota watches her work, her entire back exposed save for the little white tie that keeps the apron attached. The string bow trails down her ass, stopping just before her thighs. The curve of her thin back is beautiful, even in the midst of half-concealed bruises. Practically naked like this, she should set Nyota’s blood boiling.

Instead, Nyota simply sighs. 

She sets down her PADD and asked, “What happened, Carol?” Carol’s shoulders flinch; she doesn’t look around. 

She mumbles after a minute, “My... my father isn’t a very nice man.” And she pulls the carrots out of the Synthesizer, taking them to chop. Somehow, Nyota didn’t expect her to bring that up so fast. Either she really needs to learn how to guard secrets better, or she foolishly sees no need to be guarded around Nyota. 

Nyota doesn’t ask the question on the tip of her tongue. Somehow, the idea of its reality is far less tempting than it was in her imagination. Instead, she asks more generally, “He hurt you...?”

Carol nods without looking. Her voice barely wavers, wispy but strong. “And he liked to... to share me around...” She shudders suddenly; Nyota imagines the sort of burly crews that admirals command. Carol walks stiffly back to the Synthesizer and finishes, “So you see, it’s important to me that he doesn’t discover where I am.” Her tone is light, but there’s gravity in it. 

Nyota’s vaguely proud of her. “It mustn’t have been easy, escaping.”

“No. It wasn’t.”

And Carol continues to cook for her master: business as usual. Nyota looks back at her PADD, but the numbers are far less interesting than they were a moment ago. 

She clicks it off. 

She pushes to her feet, Carol looking around at the scraping of a chair. Nyota walks to Carol’s back and drapes over it, presses in, loops a loose hand around Carol’s small waist and holds all of Carol’s bare body against her. Carol breathes out sharply, and Nyota presses a small kiss to her cheek. 

Nyota purrs, “You don’t have to worry; you’re _mine_ now. And I treat my things well.” She has to pause to chuckle, adding soothingly, “Well, I am rough, but only how you like.” Carol smiles and doesn’t deny that she _does_ like it. 

But she does say bitterly, “My father’s an admiral. I don’t have the liberty of ceasing to worry.” 

That’s not something Nyota can fight. She knows it, but still, she leans into Carol and does what she can. She sighs, “Move all your things over in the morning.”

* * *

Carol asks her once, “What’s it like? Being on the bridge?”

And Nyota lies, “It’s not that different.” Because she doesn’t know how to explain just _how_ different it is. Everything’s bigger, more important, more intense, and other moments it’s a boring playpen of children, and other times it’s just another job. She wonders vaguely if Carol looks up to her for her position or for something else. 

She rolls onto her other side, and though the lights are off, she can see the faint outline of _Carol_ through the dark. Carol brought with her a globe lamp, alight with stars, small, twinkling things that keep away the total blackness. It’s pretty and rare, like Carol, and so Nyota lets it adorn her nightstand. Nyota doesn’t ask what it’s like working with weapons, because she knows. Carol discussed her day over dinner. 

Normal yeomen don’t do that. But normal yeomen don’t live with their masters, don’t dine with their masters, don’t command any form of respect. Nyota’s realizing she doesn’t have much need for a yeoman; she’s always done her own work, and she still can. But the company and the touch and the _something else_ that Carol brings to the table aren’t anything she’d give up. 

She muses anyway, because she should’ve said this a few days ago, “You should go to sickbay.” She can feel Carol’s frown as much as see it. 

She’s been holding back with the idea because she _knows_ Dr. McCoy takes liberties. He can patch Carol up, heal every last millimeter, right as rain. But he’ll touch her in the process, feel her and whisper dirty things in her ear. He’ll try to steal her away, but Nyota went into this with Carol’s eyes on her, and she tells herself that that’s how things will stay. 

She can feel Carol’s hesitation, and she lifts her hand from beneath the blankets, reaching for Carol’s cheek. She cups it, strokes it, moves aside a few fallen strands of light hair and says half in jest, “No running off with the doctor. No matter how handsome or good with his hands he is.”

“I wouldn’t,” Carol answers, clearly without even thinking. Hung up on something else. She sighs, “I don’t have good experiences with doctors...”

No one in the Empire does. But Dr. McCoy is the best in the fleet, grubby paws or no. Nyota steels her voice to command, “That was an order, yeoman.” She thinks she can see the corners of Carol’s grin.”

“I suppose I haven’t been yours long enough to feel entitled to refuse.” _Yours_. Just that generality. Nyota notes with stifled amusement that Carol thinks time will grant her freedom. There is no freedom in their world. Then Carol sighs, “I don’t need to be pampered and healed.” Which speaks more to her determination then her hesitations ever do. 

Nyota slinks closer, her bare knee brushing Carol’s. She means to lean in but finds Carol pressing into her first, lips plush and warm. 

Nyota kisses back with a wandering tongue and lightly scraping teeth, tired head igniting. She was sleepy. She had a long day. This is the danger of sleeping with yeomen. 

She rolls suddenly on top of Carol, semi-tangled in the blankets and not letting it stop her, crushing down into Carol and adjusting their legs. She rubs herself into Carol’s warm body and reaches for Carol’s breasts, while Carol lightly strokes her sides. Two ripe handfuls, and she squeezes, drinking Carol’s gasp. She kneads them as she purrs into Carol’s ear, “Are you being a bad kitty, disobeying her master...?”

Carol makes a soft laughing sound and shakes her head, murmuring teasingly, “ _Meow._ ” She arches her body up into Nyota’s: an open invitation.

She tastes like cherry lip-gloss and evening breath. 

She tells Nyota later that ‘Wallace’ is her mother’s surname, and Nyota kisses her quiet.

* * *

It takes a while to break her down to it, but when Carol’s finally locked up in sickbay, Nyota makes sure to keep in touch with Dr. McCoy. He’s patching her up bruise by bruise, and he tells her: _Looking but not touching, except where strictly necessary._

Nyota does wonder what parts Dr. McCoy considers strictly necessary, but she doesn’t press the issue. She wants Carol healed well, and wellness always comes with a price. She knows that Carol’s probably nervous, but then she should’ve sucked it up and gone yesterday when Nyota was off and could’ve come. For now, she’s stuck on the bridge, one eye on sickbay and the other on incoming calls. 

She gets a transmission in the middle of everything: a hail from a nearby vessel. Before she relays it, she runs through the usually processes, checking the ID number of the ship, its current commanding officer, and the validity of the message. Everything checks out. 

She reaches commanding personnel, and she pales. 

For a moment, Nyota doesn’t move. She sucks in a breath, _staring_ at the screen, willing it to change. It doesn’t. 

She turns in her chair and announces, voice firm and chest tight, “Captain, priority message on channel one. It’s... the ISS Vengeance.”

And Admiral _Alexander Marcus._


	4. Over

It doesn’t go well. 

Marcus doesn’t ask if Carol’s aboard, he _tells_ Kirk as much, and he demands her back. Kirk plays poker face and says he’ll look into the matter, strong as ever, refusing to be bulldozed by a man that could have him torn to pieces. Marcus gives them twenty-four hours, cuts the transmission, and the heavy warship hangs before them on the viewscreen, an ever-present threat. 

Nyota doesn’t even have to be told. Kirk rises from his chair, storms towards his ready room, and Nyota’s hot on his heels. 

She takes a seat behind his desk, while he eyes a bottle of bourbon in the corner like he’s about to smash it against the wall. 

Somehow, it’s scarier when he doesn’t. He takes his seat, turns to look at her, and _stares_. He demands, still and deadly, “Did you know?”

Nyota knows she’s headed for the agonizer. She keeps her dignity. She sits up straight, looks straight in his eyes, and tells him, “Yes.”

“You could have us all killed.”

“That’s what we thought when you took Spock from Ambassador Sarek.” She stares unblinkingly into the cold ice of his eyes, knowing damn well that she’s treading fire. An Ambassador is higher than an Admiral, in some regards, but that was _Kirk_. The way he breathes in is akin to a dragon about to snarl cinder. The only way to meet fire in this world is with more fire. Nyota dares to say, “She doesn’t want to go back.” And she realizes, too late, that she doesn’t want to let go of Carol either. 

“You think I give a fuck about that?” Kirk roars suddenly, and his arm sweeps a stack of PADDs to the floor so violently that they shatter, Nyota’s shoulders tensing. He slams his hands to the surface of the table, stands and practically spits at her, opens his mouth to scream more and merely closes it again. He seems to realize mid-fury that it won’t help, and he sinks back into his chair, seething quieter, “You can get a new fucktoy anywhere.”

Nyota says, “Not like her.” It’s too far in to go back. 

“Look. Uhura.” He looks down, glares, folds his hands and looks back at her. “ _Nyota._ ” It took him forever to learn that name. “You know I don’t like this. I am Captain James T. Kirk—I don’t take threats, I _make_ them. Marcus is a man I’ve hated for a long time, just like every other man with a half a brain under his command, and I don’t want to kowtow to him. But you’ve put me in a position where I have to, and I. Don’t. _Like it._ ” He’s hissing by the end, leaning in to her. 

She barely dares to breathe. 

She forces herself to say, “And I’ve given you something he wants.” Even though she has nothing to do with it. 

He snorts. Something passes through his eyes, consideration, but he points out, “If it’s not a pawn I can keep, it’s not a pawn at all.”

True. And she knows. 

She looks aside. She’s bitter, cold, wary and too wound up to be terrified like she should. Instead, she stares at the wall and waits for his orders. All this time she’s spent building up her status, and she’s going to lose it all over a pretty face she thought would help her rise. She feels foolish. 

He tells her, “Get out of here. Send Spock in. We’ve got some thinking to do.” And he glares at her surprised face, adding darkly, “I’ll deal with you later.”

She can taste bile in her throat as she rises and nods, walking stiffly to the door.

* * *

She’s trimmed Carol’s shifts to ensure that Carol’s always waiting for her, usually with cleaned quarters and a meal. She arrives before that can happen, catching Carol in the bedroom in the middle of stripping. 

Carol smiles up at her, straightens, with just her skirt and bra. The smile quickly slips away when she sees Nyota’s look, and Nyota wants to force herself to talk but can’t. 

She should say it. Carol has a right to know. But Nyota can’t seem to make her mouth move, can’t form the words. Instead, she steps forward, the rest of the way, closes the distance and kisses Carol _hard_. Carol clings to her; a beautiful, innocent child. 

Carol asks, “What’s wrong?” And Nyota kisses her quiet. It doesn’t matter. Twenty-four hours—twenty-three, by now—and this will all be over. It hasn’t been long enough for Nyota to feel as horrible as she does. She shouldn’t care like this, but she _does_. There is no pain like an agonizer, and it’ll be hers while Carol’s dragged back to hell. 

So Nyota just pushes Carol against the bed. She clutches Carol’s face in her hands and kisses Carol over and over, stealing away any chance to ask. She bends Carol backwards, until they’re tumbling into the sheets, and Nyota’s hands are pushing at clasps and fabric and panties that shouldn’t be there. She strips Carol down to nothing, and Carol helps, and Carol touches her back. She shrugs out of her own clothes, shimmies away, finds herself bare and thinking just _this might be the last time._

She can get another yeoman. They might be intelligent. They might be dedicated. They might be pretty. They might even _want_ her, but they won’t be Carol.

She picks Carol up by the waist, so light and easy, and she turns in the bed, reaching and yanking blankets away. She lays Carol down, head in the pillows, goes in for another kiss and Carol turns her head away, mouth still connecting with skin and cheek and neck. Lifting a leg along Nyota’s side, Carol moans, “What are you going to do to me today, master?”

 _Everything_ if she could. There’s a growl lodged in Nyota’s throat, and she finds Carol’s wrists, pulls them from her body and pins them to the sheets. It’s just kissing, over and over again, and her body rocks into Carol’s, everything touching. Pure and simple. No time for toys, no need, not this time, but she holds Carol down like _she’ll never let Carol go_ , and Carol just moans and writhes and rocks and kisses back.

They grind together like one. Sweat begins to bead, light and half from stress but mostly merciless movement, and their legs tangle, trying to get a firm grip. Carol’s hands don’t fight. They lie where Nyota pins them. Nyota doesn’t need her fingers to feel everything else; she _knows_ what everything feels like and she feels it with her body. Carol starts to whimper the closer she gets; this is enough. She gasps and murmurs between frantic kisses, “ _Yes,_ ” and “ _Please._ ”

Nyota gives everything she has. It all goes to her hips, to her mouth. She gets fiercer, stronger, nips instead of kisses and hard bites instead of tongue—if she’s going to leave she’s going to do it with _marks_ —and Carol arches into every touch. Nyota’s heat builds into a pinnacle of want and need and refusal to let go. She could do more, so much more, but doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to leave, just takes this, them together, _Yes_. She gets closer, closer. 

She comes, weak and sad, trembling and wanting more, _more_. She keeps going until Carol follows, content as always. Always happy beneath Nyota. Where she should stay. 

Nyota lets her hands go and curls into her body, holds her tight and hisses into her neck, “ _Mine_.”

* * *

They’re still in bed when the built-in communicator of her quarters sets off, and Kirk tells her, _“My ready room. Now.”_ And Carol tenses instantly beside her.

Carol knew something was wrong, but Nyota wouldn’t say, just kissed her and touched her and still wishes she could—they should have so much more time than this. 

But they slip out of bed and dress.

And Nyota dully announces, “It’s your father. He’s on a warship out there, facing us with ten times the firepower if we don’t surrender you.” 

Carol drops her skirt, her eyes saucers. She looks at Nyota like her breath has stopped, like her lungs are collapsing. The _terror_ in her eyes is so palpable that Nyota has to look away. There’s nothing to be done now. 

When they’re both dressed, Carol manages, “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“I am,” Carol insists.

Nyota snaps, “No. That’s an order.” And she glares fire at her yeoman, but when she walks, Carol follows her, and Nyota doesn’t have the strength to tie her down. 

They walk to bridge through yellow alert: no sirens but _tension_. They’re silent. Through the glass doors of the bridge, and another set, and then they’re in Kirk’s ready room, his eyes ablaze at Carol’s entrance. Nyota pulls up an extra chair for her. They sit, and Kirk’s hands steeple over the desk. 

He tells them very stiffly, “I hate surrendering. I _hate_ it.” The vehemence is overwhelming in his words. “But the Vengeance is carrying a new set of torpedoes, ones we couldn’t hope to face. We’re out of options.” Nyota sucks in a breath: game time. 

And Carol, unbelievably, murmurs beside her, “No, we’re not.”

Kirk’s head whips to the side almost as fast as Nyota’s does. They _stare_ at her, and Carol, wilting into her chair but speaking with a nearly clenched jaw, a crushed steel flower, grits out, “I... Captain, I’m a weapon’s specialist. As much as my father tried, he could never keep me from learning. Those new torpedoes he has... he doesn’t have as much of them as he thinks.”

While Nyota gapes at her yeoman, Kirk demands, “What are you talking about?” Carol licks her lips and sits up a bit straighter. She glances sidelong at Nyota, but Nyota has nothing to offer, just shock. 

“I... I confess I may have been a bit, er... bad. When I left him.” Kirk gestures wildly for her to go on. Carol bites her lip. “I... well, I...” She sucks in a breath and rolls on, quickly and all at once, “I crippled those torpedoes before I left. I switched all the activation codes. And... while I’ve been here, I... I knew he might find me, so I’ve been... er... modifying a few of our weapons.” Then, after a look at Kirk’s red face, she rushes on, “I know I should’ve asked permission, but with my kind of knowledge you would’ve discovered my secret, and I couldn’t risk you turning me in to my father!” She looks at Nyota again as though she needs support. 

Nyota just continues to gape at a woman she’s treated like nothing, a woman so much more... _devious_... than she ever gave credit for. 

If the situation were different, Nyota might throw her over the desk and fuck her right here. 

But instead, they both watch as Kirk sinks back in his chair, asking levelly, “You mean to tell me that _we_ have better weapons than him? That we could... say... self-destruct his?” A twisted grin works its way onto his face, maybe pleasure at the thought. “Blow his entire ship to bits and tell the Empire it was merely his own malfunction?”

Carol just nods. 

With a bit of a laugh, he asks, “And you’d give these codes to me? You’d kill your own father?” 

Cheeks turning pink, Carol admits, “I am a product of the Empire.” And Kirk just _laughs_.

He throws his head back like a maniac, spinning in his chair. He slams his fist on the table like a drunk Klingon, and he yanks open a drawer, sliding a PADD over the surface—Carol takes it and begins to type in codes. With a gleam in his eye, Kirk tells Nyota, “I’m afraid you’ll have to get a new yeoman.” He points to Carol and announces, “You, my dear, are promoted to Lieutenant!” Carol’s trembling while she types.

Throwing back his chair, Kirk springs to his feet and tugs his gold tunic into place. He looks like a tyrant drunk with power, alight and beautiful. With a wink at Nyota, he sighs, “I do so love fucking over admirals.” And he strolls for the door, back onto the bridge. 

As Nyota numbly moves to follow, Carol mumbles beside her, “I did want to be your yeoman.”

Nyota supposes, in the midst of a mental hurricane, that dating a Lieutenant is more acceptable anyway.

* * *

When the doors open, Carol practically runs through, and Kirk’s still laughing in his chair. Nyota throws one arm open, her grin too wide on her face. They should’ve had Carol there to face him, but Kirk wanted that moment for himself, and after everything, Nyota wasn’t inclined to fight him. There will be no agonizer.

Now, Carol slips onto her lap as the Vengeance fades into the distance. 

“You didn’t detonate them, then?” she asks, as though she wasn’t watching from a window somehow, somewhere. Resourceful little thing, Nyota knows. Nyota’s inclined to kiss her stupid. In the giddy afterglow of a victory, everything’s acceptable. 

“We still might. The captain’s... having some fun.” And Carol glances down, to where Kirk’s strolling over to the helm, leaning across Chekov’s shoulder, ordering pursuit. 

With a grin on her lips too cold for a woman who’s sealed her own father’s fate, Carol sighs, “He won’t report it. It would be too shameful to admit he’d allowed such an atrocity to occur under his watch.” And the way she looks at Nyota then is such a contrast, hesitant, asking, “You don’t think any less of me, do you?”

Nyota can only laugh. “On the contrary, I’ve never found you more attractive.” She kisses Carol’s cheek. Carol’s thighs are warm on her lap, hands delicate on her shoulders, weight manageable and familiar and _right_. “We could do some real damage in this world, you and I.” Carol’s grin is so mischievous: beautiful. 

For a moment, Carol simply nuzzles into Nyota’s face, into her neck, while Nyota holds her back and monitors the console—half hoping for the admiral’s surrender. In the background, Scotty comes over the comm, discussing what he’s found with Jim. Carol looks sheepish, stays quiet, but in the end, Nyota knows he’ll come around. Advanced weaponry is good for all of them. It’s the way of the Empire. 

Eventually Carol sighs against Nyota’s neck, “I suppose you don’t have blackmail anymore to put me at your mercy with.”

Nyota scoffs. Though she’s thought the same thing, she doesn’t show it. She pats Carol’s side and purrs as confidently as she can, leaning in and quiet, private with it, “You’ll be my slave anyway.”

Carol whispers, “I just want to be yours.” She turns to press a kiss to Nyota’s lips—Nyota goes in for far too much tongue for the bridge. Her arm tightens around Carol’s waist and she kisses fiercely back; a part of her knew this couldn’t end. 

A lewd whistle breaks them apart, and Nyota spins her chair to see Kirk fondly eyeing them. He tells Carol, “I think Scotty could use your hand down in Engineering, now that he knows we’re sitting on a powder keg.”

Turning red, Carol mumbles, “Sorry, sorry, of course,” and slips right off. It leaves Nyota’s lap empty, and she has to resist the urge to reach out. There’s always later. 

She watches Carol leave, catches Carol glancing back, and then it’s just her and Kirk and the rest of the smug-feeling bridge. The Enterprise never loses. 

“Janice will have to do for a while,” Kirk tells her, all smirks. In the corner, the young yeoman looks up from her console, ever at the ready. But without the knowledge to self-destruct an entire starship, she just doesn’t have the same appeal. Kirk asks on her behalf, “Should we have her fetch you coffee?”

But Nyota simply says, “I don’t need coffee.” Because she’s already got everything she needs.

Laughing, Kirk sends for it anyway. Success is in their blood, and success is rewarded. 

Later, Nyota drinks her coffee and watches the Vengeance dance beyond the viewscreen, pondering vaguely if there’s any way to twist this into making her a commander. ...And, of course, just what toys she’ll use tonight when they celebrate properly.


End file.
